Many colours make a painting
by bridit
Summary: House and Wilson piece. Both leave for the day to go home. Friendshipslash if it takes your fancy. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: Own nuffin. Bar the internet. I own that.

Please read and review, would love to hear what you think.

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Lab coat hung up, suit jacket sitting right, brief case carefully filled and ready, desk organised. He shut the door and heard the lock click as it resonated through the wood door. He said goodbye to all the nurses as he passed.  
Music in, bag on his shoulder, files and papers every where and he was out the door before his fellows could say a word. The door swung back beyond locking point and sat propped upon. He avoided everyone possible.

Though a bond stretched between them that few people would come between, a shared underlying sense of equivocal pain and experience held them up even in dire circumstances when there were naught but the tinniest gestures to feed their cavernous relationship, James Wilson and Gregory House were two very different people. And it wasn't deep underlying differences, those few social commentaries that people made about them did prove to be resoundingly acute observations on the off occasion. James Wilson seemed to thrive of bringing comfort to people, putting them at ease and getting along with them. Gregory House on the other hand seemed to find all humanity almost unendingly and incomprehensively repulsive. New friends and new people were James' thing, discovering things about old friends was House's.

The golden orange rush of light from the setting sun was warm in his eyes and sparkled off the skin on his hands as he drove home down the freeway.  
Blinding light in his eyes signalling the end of an arduous day, it glanced off him as he shrouded himself in his home and didn't give the glowing evening another thought.

These things didn't often make a difference to their relationship, in fact they didn't, both found the others mirror image lifestyle to be incredibly absorbing, each addicted on the company. Without foresight, they consumed their time with each other, obsessed with the desire to push every button, wanting to see every reaction.

Doors swung out, rooms revealed.  
Blank geometry, sanitary air, the pens in the same place, the note pads refilled.  
A room full of things that would stay forever, the remote where he left it, the same dishes in the sink.

Desperation came to knock each of their doors. Whilst in the throws of hopeless despair with a lack of future and the loss of the only good things he thought existed, House was the kind who would look to death as a cure. Wilson, whilst trapped in a lonely whirlpool, purely existing day after day without joy or satisfaction, was a runner. In the midst of black sucking holes, he would, if instinct were allowed to roam free, run. He would run far, far away, start again. A new life, new relationships, but every time something held him back.

TV's were on, shades of grey from black to white were flickering across the screen, soundless. Grace Kelly touched her shinning blonde hair.  
Colour burst across the screen, screams of spring break girls filled every corner of the room, blonde hair flicked out of the way as a 'girl gone wild' lifted her shirt.

Antidepressants meant different things for each. For House, people's breath loosened, sighs of relief were heard, and hope is allowed to bloom in the hearts for those who care about the grouch because it can only be seen as progress. For Wilson brows knitted, people's stares become less amazed and more confused. They're all concerned because for James Wilson to be on antidepressants indicates only one thing, a down hill slide for the man who once, had almost had everything.

Sheets were pulled up, away from the mattress.  
White starchy pressed panels of linen tucked in so tight, fibres shimmering with tension like the same skin pulled taught across of severe scorn of his old headmistress' face. His body slipped between the covers, his skin scratching as he felt his breath constricted from the taught bands of bedding, and he felt like something in his life was in control, something was held down and stable. Dark but for the lights of passing cars, no sound but for the scuffle of late comers down the hallway, cold as his solo body tried to heat a bed meant for two.  
Vaguely white sheets were ripped up from the bundle they'd become at the end of the bed, a doona on the floor was pulled over to cover his legs as threw himself down in a flop. The light was on and his i-pod in his ears. His long limbs were flung out from him like a starfish he lay across the entire expanse of his bed, head distinctly empty but for the bars of Chopin's nocturnes as they echoed inside his head.

And it was this relationship, this mutually accepted _thing_, that was slowly killing one of them to feed the other. Wilson wondered how much of himself he'd have to give away to finally be like House, to be able to turn to death for the cure to his eternal solitude, and not wait eternally hoping for an escape that was never an option because he was holding onto one thing so fiercely.  
And in the windows as one looked out of the window as a thickening smog covered the sky, the other wondered how long it would be before he had to take it upon himself to cut the rope that was slowly choking Wilson, and force him to finally let go of House's hand.

Two in the morning. They thought of each other.


End file.
